


1966

by Paul_Westerberg_Is_A_God (orphan_account)



Category: Eddie Van Halen - Fandom, Keanu Reeves - Fandom, Paul Westerberg (Musician), Rock Music RPF, christian slater - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Sex, Band Spilt, Break Up, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gay Sex, Heroin, LSD, Lots Of Death too though, M/M, Mental Breakdown, More sex than death, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paul gets really into the beastie boys in the eighties, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Therapy, Time Jump, lots of it too, tommy and paul date for a while
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-02 02:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13308063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Paul_Westerberg_Is_A_God
Summary: The true story of the Electriks, the most influential band out of New York in rock history.





	1. Chapter 1

January 2nd, 1995

New year, same boring therapy sessions; Paul Westerberg was back where they'd started, good ol' New York.

His hands were like icicles frozen in the pockets of his thick jacket, his nose and cheeks displayed a light red; his boots crunched loudly on the thick layer of snow that had basked New York in it's beautiful winter wonderland.

He wasn't the only one out at seven in the morning in quite possibly zero or below weather though, no, other's paced up and down the sidewalk; business types as well as junkies. It was a terrible, hectic, orgy of people; and Paul set his eyes straight ahead, marching up the street two blocks from his therapist's office. 

He'd always told Keanu he didn't need anyone to talk to, that he was just fine keeping to himself; his horrid outbreak back in '92 said otherwise. 

He didn't like to think about that night much, when he'd left the apartment to escape the sounds of Keanu crying. To escape the reminder that he was the one at fault for Keanu's crying. 

His anger has finally boiled up so bad; it wasn't Keanu's fault, it could've been anyone, he could've broken down at any moment in time. Keanu was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time; and being in the wrong place had cost him a horrid black eye and a swollen bloody lip, along with a constellation of bruises on his chest. 

Paul had come back the next day, in literal tears, begged of Keanu to take him back, swore he'd never lay another hand on him. Keanu agreed, as long as Paul would finally talk to someone. 

Dr. Eugene Horace was a short, private man, he didn't have many friends; some would say he himself needed therapy. He was always good with patients however, and Paul was no exception so even after Keanu's untimely death, Paul continued to go to Dr. Horace twice weekly. 

As he came upon the building -lower level belonging now to a barber shop that had just opened merely weeks ago- he thought back to his first visit here, when Keanu had practically yanked him up those stairs by the collar on his ratty faded navy blue button up. 

Before he'd been pushed into the door of Dr. Horace's office he'd looked back at Keanu, with a burning fire in his eyes and said, "Maybe you should get some therapy too, junkie." 

Keanu's drug habits weren't a big deal considering Paul was right up there with him; but Paul's little breakdown hadn't been either of their first introduction to domestic violence. Keanu used to come in, high on whatever the alley junkies gave him that day, and it usually ended in a fight. A horrible bloody fight, to put it roughly, they beat the shit out of each other. 

It had always been a toxic relationship, Paul wouldn't face this truth until well after Keanu's death. They just weren't right for each other, Paul would've done better with Tommy Stinson had Tommy not left him for that idiot Chris. 

He's up the stairs and at the door, he knocks once, twice, three times before a small, boyish voice says, "Come in." 

Eugene Horace had always been very boyish, although he was only a few years younger than Paul he was short, lanky, had a school boy style cut of blonde hair, so blonde that it almost resembled white. 

When Paul had first come into his office he didn't recognize him for The Paul Westerberg of the Electriks. Paul was his first ever celebrity patient, and once he found out it was Paul the couldn't barely contain himself.

As a young boy of fifteen, when the Electriks we're first making it big, he was a music fanatic. He'd never heard anything quite like it, they were new and yet old and they were perfect for the ears of young Eugene. His walls were plastered with posters that he looked at in joy (and on occasion, masturbated to, the first signs of his future homosexuality). 

Having Paul as a patient had given him a sort of distaste for the Electriks however. He didn't very much like the backstage look he was getting into the true lives of the Electriks. It was a wild story, full of sex and jail and drugs and rock 'n roll, something Eugene had never wished to experience.

He liked to live vicariously through the thought of the Electriks, not dive headfirst into all the drama and anger and substance abuse. 

Paul took a seat on the couch opposite Eugene's chair, Eugene attempted a smile, "So, Paul, how was your birthday?" 

Paul wasn't ready for the question, "Fine, nice quiet night." He hadn't remembered his own birthday honestly, he'd spent it like any other night, strewn out on the couch in front of the telly half-asleep. 

"Did you see John this week, perhaps he stopped by to say 'Happy birthday'?" Paul almost laughed at the question, he hadn't seen John Lydon in weeks, but he pacified Eugene nonetheless, "Yeah, Johnny stopped by on Tuesday, we had a go in my bed 'n he left." 

Eugene shakes his head slightly, "Paul, you don't have to lie to me-"

"What am I supposed to say, I ain't seen Johnny in a month, he's bored of me, they all get bored. They get bored or they go off 'n get killed." 

"Paul, calm down, Keanu's death wasn't your fault, it wasn't anyone but that shithead shooter's fault." 

"Yeah 'n maybe that shooter did him a favour, maybe he's happier dead than with me." Paul was tensed, eyes narrowed toward Eugene; "Paul, take a breath, calm down. Keanu loved you. I know he did." 

Paul sits back, relaxed enough, "You don't know shit, you don't know anything," 

Eugene sighs, "So, you've been eating right, Paul?" His shotty attempt to redirect the conversation works well enough. 

"Yeah, I been eatin'." Paul nods, arms crossed like a teenager, he's standoffish, still probably pissed. 

"That's good Paul, I feel like we're really making progress." Eugene gave a small smile, Paul glared, "Oh yeah, tons of progress, fuckin' tons." 

"So, Paul, you think you might be ready to finally.. open up about, y'know. Adolescence." Eugene tries this everytime, tries to get Paul to talk about teenage hood. 

"You always fuckin' ask that!" Paul spits, " You always fuckin' ask. Alright I had a shit childhood! Dad beat me when he got drunk, ma just watched! How many fuckin' times do I gotta say I don't wanna talk about it?" Paul's up on his feet, Eugene curses under his breath realizing he might've gone a bit far. Paul continues, "You wanna know what happened to me as a kid so bad, huh? You're just so eager to hear me cry and spill it all out, huh? Y'know what childhood was like? I was made fun of ruthlessly by the other boys, beaten up, and if my dad found out I didn't fight back, I got the shit beat out of me again! I was sent to my room, where I'd sit in solitude and cry, like a little bitch I'd cry,"

"And if that ain't enough for ya, I got sent off to a fuckin' mental hospital, for the fucking crazies, cause ma walked in on my wankin' it to a picture of Paul McCartney when I was fourteen." 

Eugene's quiet, lips pursed tight, Paul takes the moment to walk out; down the steps before he can hear if Eugene said anything.

It's gonna be a cold walk home, he feels like he might cry.


	2. Chapter 2

September, 1965 

Keanu Reeves was a tall boy, with unruly hair atop his head that his mother constantly fussed over, and a jaw as sharp as his wit. He was in Mick's Records, when he met poor Paul Westerberg, an awkward limbed boy with a bulbous nose and wild eyebrows, holding onto the newest Beatles record like a life preserver. 

Keanu sauntered over, "Beatles, huh? Y'like 'em?"

Paul nodded, "Yeah, been saving up all my money for this," he smiled down at the album in hand. Keanu nodded, "Got a favourite?" 

"Album?" Paul shifted a little, glancing around at all the beautiful records. "Beatle," Keanu replied, like it was obvious. 

"Paul," Paul nodded, "and you?"

"Oh I don't have one, sounds a little queer to have a favourite Beatle." Keanu shook his head.

Paul stiffened a little, "It does?" Keanu nods, "Yeah it's like when all the schoolgirls fight over if Paul or John are cuter." 

Paul nods, "Yeah, 'course, I don't even really have a favourite, I just picked Paul on the spot." 

Keanu has an odd look in his eye, "Alrigh'. What's your name, I'm Keanu." 

"Paul," Paul extends a hand, Keanu shakes it sort of limply before saying, "You're Paul and your favourite Beatle is Paul?" 

Paul nodded awkwardly, and shifted a bit, everything about Paul was awkward. He suggested awkward with every movement, every word. 

"Actually I can play a few Beatles songs on my guitar," Paul tried redirecting the conversation, it worked well enough, Keanu's interest was spiked quick enough, "You play guitar, eh?" 

Paul nods, "Yeah, my ma bought me one for my last birthday, dad didn't approve much, but he died a couple months later of liver failure so it don't matter."

"If this ain't too forward, I've got a band. We need a guitarist." Keanu smiled wide, like he couldn't be told no.

"Well, I can't play too well, an' it's just a little acoustic my mom got me, nothing special, nothing good." Keanu's taken aback by this, that Paul isn't jumping at the thought of a band; Eddie and Christian would've loved him, fucker's got an untapped attitude, Keanu can see it. 

"I'm sure your good, I reckon your mom's got a phone, huh?" Keanu's persistent, eager. Paul nods a little, "Yeah.. I don't know her number, she don't let me use it."

"Well I know my mom's number, I'll write it down, ask for 'Keanu'." Paul's about to object but Keanu's running up to the checkout counter, begging Mick for a bit of paper and a pencil. 

He comes back victoriously, smiling like the prettiest girl in the whole school just asked him to a date, and he scribbles the number in barely legible writing; but it doesn't matter, Paul can read it well enough. 

"I hope to hear from you Paul, I really do," Keanu grins, punching him playfully in the arm, which Paul unexpectedly flinches at; Keanu raises a brow, "You alright, I'm just messin' 'round." 

"I'm.. I'm fine," Paul nods, readjusting his grip on the album in hand, "but I should probably get going," Paul waves, going up to the counter with a fistful of crumpled money and the Beatles record. 

Keanu wavers for a moment, he'd forgot why he came in, so he leaves.

The walk home is short, just a quick couple blocks before he's pushing in the door and announcing to his mother, "I've got a guitarist! For my band!" 

He says it like it's the unfiltered truth, like it's gospel, because he knows Paul will call; that's just the kind of guy Paul is, he has to call, there's no doubt in Keanu's mind. 

Keanu's mother was a kind, supportive women, she'd raised a child single under the constant mockery of her mother Belinda, and she liked to think her son had turned out just fine.

"Is that right?" She called out from the kitchen, Keanu skipped in like an excited puppy, "Yes! His name's Paul, and it's funny 'cause his favourite Beatle is Paul! And George is mine yeah, but my second favourite is Paul!"

Keanu's mother laughed a bit, busy preparing dinner, "He sounds wonderful, sweetie." Keanu smiled on and continued, "Oh he is great! He's wonderful and the band is gonna love 'im!" 

Mrs. Reeves finally looked at her son and frowned slightly, "Your clothes are dirty, where'd you meet this boy?" 

"At the record shop! He was buying a Beatles record, but I tripped on my way home, that's why my clothes are messy, I'll go wash up," Keanu'd hoped she wouldn't notice the dirt on his clothes, he sighed walking into his room and pulling out of his pocket, the real reason he was dirty. 

A wad of money, not much but something nonetheless, he'd pick-pocketed it; he was getting rather good, his mother would be broken-hearted if she knew her son was stealing. 

He hid the money under his mattress, changed, washed his face and got back to the kitchen right in time for dinner. 

Paul on the other hand wasn't coming home to a warm cooked meal, he was coming home to a -hopefully- empty house. 

His mother was at work, once his father died she had to take a job as a secretary for a bank something or other, Paul couldn't recall the guy's title but his name was Don, and Paul's mom would bring him home anytime she needed someone in bed with her. 

The guy was married, Paul had seen the ring on his finger, that had given him a newer hatred for his mother, ruining a family; but he'd already loathed his mother, so his new found anger was ill-placed.

He hoped his sister wasn't home, he didn't want to have to ask to use her record player. So he tip toed up the stairs, album held tightly in his left hand and made his way quietly to his sister's room. 

She was in there, sprawled out on her bed reading, and Paul stood awkwardly in the doorway. 

"Um, Mary." Paul shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, swallowing nervously. 

"What?" She looked up, annoyed, setting her book down and sitting up on her bed to face him. 

"Well.. I was just wondering, see I got this.. I got a new record-" he's cut off by, "Did you steal it?" He shook his head quickly, "No I been savin' up, and I was wonderin' if I could use your record player, maybe," he looks down awkwardly.

"No," Mary shakes her head and Paul protests, "But you aren't using it!" 

"And you think I'm gonna let the loser of all losers use it, I already have to deal with being related to you," he pursed his lips at the comment, "Well I uh.. sorry." Sorry for what? He wasn't sure. 

Paul had always been the least favourite of the two, Mary had been adorned with love and affection and Paul was their bastard son who was more a mistake than anything. 

He makes his way down the hall, to his room, he wants out of this out of it all. He wants a record player and friends and a pretty guy like Paul McCartney to like him. 

For the first time since Keanu left the record store Paul rememebers the number burning a hole in his back pocket. 

He could be in a band, they could be famous, Paul could get out of shitbag New York for good and watch his family look up to him as he's on stage, playing guitar in front of millions. 

He could be happy.


	3. Chapter 3

So the next day would be forever known to Paul as the Saturday that changed his life. His mother was at work; and his sister was off with her friends, better than them being here, they liked to torture Paul, tease him like the rest of the bunch. 

He made his way downstairs, quietly like he was afraid his mother may be spying on the phone, like she knew he would do this. 

His fear was unfitting, his mother didn't expect anything, but he knew how insolent he was being; he knew this was wrong but if there was any chance of him getting to leave home, you better believe he was fucking taking it. 

So he made his way to the living room, picked the phone of the holster and dialed Keanu's number, he held his breath and listened to the noise the phone was emitting, he'd only ever gotten to use a phone when he had to call his grandmother and aunt on Christmas. 

A women's voice rings through his ears, "Hello?" 

He's not sure what to do at first, he swallows awkwardly and another 'hello?' hits his ears, snapping him to reality. "Um, hello ma'am, is Keanu there? My name's Paul and uh-" "Paul! I've heard so much about you, yes, yes of course I'll get Keanu! Y'know Paul's my favourite Beatle too! Hold on one second," she's a quick talker, it takes Paul a moment to process all that she's said. Why would Keanu's mother 'know so much about him', why would she expect him to call or know his favourite Beatle or- "Paul?" Keanu's voice breaks through his thoughts like a knife through butter. "Hey.. Keanu." Paul clears his throat awkwardly and clutches at the phone hard. 

"So have you given any thought to playing for us, maybe?" Keanu's straight to business, it throws Paul off guard, he trips over his words as he replies, "Yeah I uh.. yeah. Um. When could I.. come over." 

"When's good for you?" Keanu asks cheerily, not even affected by Paul radiating awkwardness. 

"Well I uh.. I have church tomorrow, but maybe after, and I could stop by.. after. After church." Paul looks around, like he's scared someone's watching him, watching him break rule on top of rule instead of staying in his room and plucking at his guitar like a good boy. 

"Yeah, that sounds great, I'll get the rest of the band over, my mom let's us use the basement." Keanu couldn't help but smile. 

The conversation started to go more smoothly, Paul began to look more enthusiasticly toward the next day. He jotted Keanu's address down on the back of the paper Keanu's phone number was on, and still the conversation continued on; they talked about the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and the Beach Boys and Paul didn't even hear the front door open.

"Paul Harold Westerberg," it was his mother's voice sharp, shrill, and immediatly angry.

"I-I-I... I gotta go," he said quietly before hanging up, "I can.. I. Um," he wants to explain, he tries, he's at a loss for words however and his mother yanks him up by a handful of his hair. 

He yelps but doesn't try to struggle as she pulls him upstairs, the pain shooting through his skull is immense and he grips tight onto the paper at hand so he doesn't drop it as he's thrown into his room and the door slams. 

"You're not coming out of that room until you've learned your lesson!" She shrieks, he wonders whether he'll get to eat dinner tonight.

The next morning he's forced into his Sunday best, which doubles as his school uniform and formal clothing, and his mother brushes back his hair rather unceremoniously, yanking and tugging and glaring at him for not being born with more church suitable hair.

"What the fuck is wrong with your hair?" She seethed as she pulled the brush from his hair. Paul didn't answer, he wasn't supposed to answer, actually she'd instructed him not to talk at all today. 

"You're getting a haircut on Tuesday, I don't want you turning into one of them hippie types I see on the streets," Paul wants to object, but he reminds himself he's not supposed to speak, so he nods slightly.   
She sighs, "Think it might'a done you well to keep you in the nuthouse, you ain't still all queer are ya'?"   
He shakes his head again.

"Good, y'know them fuckin' gays are trying to get that sin legalized. Fuckin' devils." Mrs. Westerberg's got quite the mouth despite being barely as tall as Paul and very petite. 

Paul swallows a lump in his throat and gives a look that he can only hope passed for 'That's no good, ma.' even if he feels like screaming, even if all he wants is to kiss a boy and touch a boy and be with boys, beautiful boys like Paul McCartney or Keanu.

Finally she gives up on his hair, grabbing his face and inspecting for dirt; she sighs, grabbing a rag and scrubbing his face raw and wet. 

It kind of starts to hurt and she pulls away, "Wash your own face next time," he bites back an angry comment, the collar of his shirt is now trickled with water.

"Go get your sister, I'll be in the car," she sighs, looking him over like he's a lost cause. He nods, making his way out of the cramped bathroom and down the hall, his mother is making her way down the stairs already. 

"Ma said for me to get you for church," Paul's voice is quiet, kind of croaky, he'd spent most of last night crying. "Aren't you supposed to not be talking?" Mary rolls her eyes, smoothing her dress before getting up. 

Paul nods a little, and she shakes her head. 

They're out of the house moments later and into their mother's car, "You two are going to be on your best behaviour," 

"Yes ma'am," Mary says quietly, Paul only nods when she glares back at him, because she's the one who forbid him from talking.

Reverend Richards was a bad man, everyone knew he best his kids, how he'd even become a pastor was puzzling to some. His children would sit in the front pews, little Suzy and Johnny with their nice church clothes hiding the proof of physical abuse. 

They were a timid duo, didn't utter barely a word in all of the Westerberg's time here. 

Now Mrs. Westerberg was a talker, a gossiper, and Reverend Richards' children were always very popular amongst the Housewife Gossips. 

They'd talk, and it was a wonder Richards' never found out because they weren't a very discreet bunch. 

Paul and Mary climbed out of the backseat, and attempted to avoid the puddles of mud and water as they walked with their mother into church. 

The storm the night prior had been a rough one, wind whipping quick through the trees; the only light Paul had all last night was the veiny strikes of lightning. 

They took seats next to each other in the third row of pews, their mother hurried to the other side where all her friends were. 

Everyone hushed up once the sermon began, and Paul tuned out, he didn't feel all of this really necessary, get up at seven in the morning on a Sunday to go listen about how much God cares. Oh, just.. not about gays. 

Yes Paul had heard that speach when he was just starting to get curious, almost fourteen, getting hard looking at the Beatles. He was more than confused, but he couldn't talk to anyone about it. 

Then there had been that night, that one night where he'd brought that picture of Paul McCartney to his bed with him. 

His mom had just happened to walk in, just happened to see the picture, just happened to send him off to be hetero-ized. 

Once he'd come back his whole family treated him different, 'bastard son' had turned into, 'pansy queer' and his father had found more reasons to hit him; it was like being homo had fucked his life worse. 

Paul looks around, he doesn't want to be here in the church, learning about Jesus and God and Moses. What was the point?

He hesitates momentarily before turning to his sister- wait, where was his sister?- he looked around quickly, he didn't see her. Had she snuck off as well? 

He holds his breath for a moment, before standing up and slipping out of the pew, crouching down and gaining odd looks from fancily dressed church goers before leaving through the side door. 

He exhaled rather loudly when he was home free outside, he slipped a hand in his pocket and felt excitedly at the peice of paper in there. Keanu's house was only a few blocks from the church, and right across from his school. 

The sidewalk was wet below his shoes, the nice ones his mother had bought him at the start of school, and he took a shortcut through muddy grassland. 

The mud caked along his jeans, oh how his mother would scream at him for ruining his clothes, it covered his shoes and he ever managed to get some on his stupid white button up and he was the happiest boy in the world destroying what his foul mother had bought. 

Once he's back on the concrete he's scraping at the bottoms of his shoes, willing the mud to dry because he doesn't want to dirty up Keanu's mother's house and he's half-regretting it. 

Then here it is, Keanu's house, it's nice and short of small; Paul rather likes it actually, it's cozy. He can't wait to see the inside of his possible new band mate's house.  

He takes a deep breath and knocks.


	4. Chapter 4

January 9th 1994,

Paul hadn't quite caught what Eugene had said, his soft voice never quite reaching Paul's ears. 

"What's that?" He perked up slightly, they hadn't talked about last week's breakdown, and Paul doubted it would be brought up at all; Eugene just pretended it hadn't happen and Paul elected to do the same. That was how it worked in Eugene's office, Paul pulled some shit and they wouldn't talk about it for months to come, it was easier for the both of them that way. 

"I asked you when Keanu had started using." Eugene's voice was louder, a slight conviction behind it, eager for information to jot down on his little blue lined yellow papered pad. "Heroin or blotter?" Paul rested his cheek against his hand, overdoing his state of boredom just for the satisfaction of knowing it would eat at the back of Eugene's mind for hours after he left. 

"Heroin, Paul." 

Paul's quiet for a long, cool moment before sighing deeply, "Why the fuck should I know? I'm not his fuckin' mom."

Eugene studies him momentarily, "You were his lover Paul, I'm sure you know more about his drug habit than his mother." Paul slumps back at this, "These are my therapy sessions. Why are we talking about a dead junkie?" 

Eugene sighs, crossing his legs, "Because that 'dead junkie' is the root to a lot of your problems Paul." Paul looks at him, as if wondering whether Eugene's right, as if pondering whether to open up. 

He stands up and it gains a disapproving look from Eugene, "Where are you going?" He peers up at him over his wire rimmed glasses, eyebrows furrowing confusedly. "In ten minutes the session would've been done anyway, I'm saving your dumbass some time. You're welcome." He reaches for the doorknob, Eugene shakes his head, "Sit down, you need to stop running from your problems." Maybe he's right, maybe Paul needs help. 

Paul opens the door, "I like hiding from my problems, makes me feel special." He spits sarcastically, rolling his eyes, Eugene swallows nervously.

Eugene does something he knows he'll regret, and the words will nag at him all damn week if this goes wrong, "Sit down or I don't wanna see you back in my office." 

Paul thinks over his choices, Eugene perks up a bit when Paul wavers, then with a small, cold smile; "Nice knowing ya, Eugene." He slams the door behind himself, makes his way down the too long hallway and finds himself back out on the street.

Halfway down the street there's a voice behind him, thick cockney, "Eh, Paulie!" 

John Lydon. 

Paul keeps his eyes straight forward, looking at the tapestry of cracks in the icy grey sidewalk, "Hey, Johnny." His reply is one of insistent disinterest, John must notice to because he slings an arm around Paul, "Been lookin' for ya." He smiles and adds a quiet, "Got you a little something too." 

Paul shoves his hands in the warm confinements of his jacket and pockets and says, "Yeah, what?" The sun's finding it's way down the horizon, covered in clouds, the sky's bleak grey turns a shade darker, like granite. 

A vast granite sky to cover the two junkies as they make their way to Paul's little dingy apartment.

"Some H. Just a bit, but enough to get us there." 

Paul can't help but give a little smile, free drugs are free drugs nonetheless, and if he has to go down on Johnny later he figures it's a good price to pay.

His apartment is small, a small television set on top of a wood rot dresser, a couch and a torn Beatles poster where the split is right through McCartney's wide, puppydog eyes.

Keanu's old record player sits along side a stack of records, a thick layer of dust caked the top one. 

On Your Feet or On Your Knees by Blue Öyster Cult. 

That record would forever haunt him, Donald Roeser's guitar would invade his every thought as he slept; Eric Bloom's voice would blanket his brain and leave him fuzzy and somewhat restless.

He couldn't ever listen to that record again. 

Paul shoves the door open and John falls back onto the couch, "Love what you've done with the place, Paulie." He rolls his eyes, sarcasm thick, "Now, I reckon you got somethin' to get us our fix?" 

Paul nodded, picking up a bag from behind the couch, a clean syringe looked up at him like a portal to Heaven's gate. A lighter accompanying it, hard red plastic. He picked a spoon up off the kitchen counter and plopped down onto the couch with John. 

The redhead smiled, "Alright Paulie, let's get this show on the road." Paul nodded, grabbing the beloved opioids from John and emptying some in the spoon. The process was delicate, the rules clear: don't burn yourself, don't waste a drop. 

The flame burnt the bottom of the shiney spoon, gifting them with a crystal clear liquid, one they'd grown so fond of. He pulled the lever of the syringe up, filling it with the substance in the spoon, John gave a wicked, excited, grin. 

"First?" Paul offered it up to John, who partook happily, he'd already tied off with a thick piece of twine. The slide of the needle was near delicate, he broke the skin and fit the metal nice and snug into that wanting vein, and he took the plunge. 

Paul watched as John's eyelids drooped, a lazy smile spread across his lips, "Oh Paul, you're gonna like this." 

Paul repeated the process, staring down at his own, lavender-blue vein, begging and pleading for a fix; he almost teased the needle against his skin, depriving himself of what he so desperately desired, and then there it was, the thin metal pushing through layers of soft skin; piercing the vein. 

Slowly he released it into himself, giving his own wanting body it's nirvana, it's haven. His blood may run clear one day, just heroin, he'd let it clog his veins and put him to sleep. That's how he wanted to die, he wanted to die from the same thing that kept him alive.

"Isn't this the fuckin' best?" John smiled, dropping his head down in Paul's lap, nose pressed against the small bit of exposed skin just above Paul's waistband, Paul shivered at the touch. "Fuck yeah," he agreed. 

John inhaled the smell of Paul's skin. The smell of sweat and Rite-Aid brand body wash and the odd scent of the laundromat where Paul washed his clothes; like fabric softener with the slightest undertones of long gone decay and the faint musty smell of his own semen. Then of course there was the burning smell of vodka, the putrid fruity smell of strawberry wine. He could taste the liqueur in his mouth, and then it was gone. 

"You want a blowie?" John licks at his skin, Paul bites his lip, "Yeah, Johnny." 

John smiles, "Alrigh'." He turns a bit on the couch, steadying himself on his sharp elbows, he quickly undid Paul's jeans and racked them down his thighs, he was semi-hard in his boxers, John licked his lower lip.

Once his boxers were down and John had wrapped his lips around Paul's cock it was a blur of intense pleasure via the opioids in his veins and John's wet, hot mouth. 

His dropped his head down on the back of the couch, tangling his long, thin hands in John's tousled hair, and he didn't last but a few minutes.

He groaned as he came down John's throat. John looked up at him with glassy eyes and spit-and-come covered lips and Paul hates to think that at that moment he thought of Keanu. 

Keanu with his eyes blown dark, face messily painted with come; tounge trailing his lips and licking up every last bit of Paul's opalescent jizz.

For the first time in a while he missed Keanu, not just the sight of him sucking cock but he missed Keanu's body pressed against him as they fell asleep together, he missed cooking for Keanu and Keanu's blunt 'it sucks' even if at the time Paul had hated him for it. He missed Keanu's touch, his smell, he voice. 

He starts to cry, shamelessly, tears dripping down his face and John sits up, "What's wrong, did I.. did I do something wrong?" Pail shakes his head, "N..No I just.. I can't explain it but it's not your fault I swear, Johnny."

John tries to comfort him, eventually giving up and leaving, says he'll see Paul whenever. 

Paul continues to cry, he prepares that last bit of heroin and let's the opioid be his saviour for another few hours.


End file.
